Life Lines
by TweetyPie85
Summary: 3 moments in time: what if Elizabeth had never survived to see her youngest daughter grow up?
1. Chapter 1

**Life Lines**

_Part 1:_

The heavy, velvet curtains hung limply on either side of the open window, affording a clear view of the sun as it crept over the still slumbering town. If she didn't close them at night he never remembered and so as the clock on the mantle chimed seven, the bright sunbeams diligently warmed the pane of glass before filtering in and gently nudging at the blanketed and still sleeping form. For several minutes he resisted their endeavours but as the sounds of a household stirring drifted up the grand, polished staircase, he finally opened his bleary eyes and rolled over. Stretching languidly, he murmured sleepily before hoisting himself out of bed.

"Morning Lizzy."

"I'm sorry darling," he added with a cheeky grin as he tied on his robe, "Elizabeth."

Without waiting for a response, he padded towards the closet and duly vanished into an adjoining chamber. Ten minutes later he re-emerged, meticulously attired in suit and cravat with only his pepper speckled beard, dotted as it was with pearls of moisture, bearing any sign of his hasty bath.

"Have a good day dear," he said softly, before reaching out to caress her jaw, "I love you."

Yet as always, the glass was cool, her lips remained mute and her eyes, once so alive with youthful joviality, followed him blankly from the room.

* * *

The small kitchen was yet silent, the fire unlit in the grate, as he made his way quickly to the back door. It hung back wearily on its hinges, the corner wedged against the adjoining wall by a deeply notched stone. Smiling slightly, he peered out.

"Mike," he called into the seemingly deserted garden, "we have to go."

"Coming," came the muffled reply and a moment later, a spry young girl leapt neatly from the arching branches of the apple tree onto the dew dampened lawn. Though nearing thirteen, her angular, boyish physique exuded the appearance of one much younger. Her straight, auburn hair, usually cut short about her ears for mere convenience, had been neglected over the long summer months and now hung limply down to her shoulders, framing her thin face. Pulling carelessly at her dark green skirt, which had been hoisted up to her knees whilst she climbed, it once again resumed its rightful position about her ankles and with a sigh she made her way over to him.

"Do we really have to go?" she pleaded, glancing up at him with a hopeful light in her eyes.

"I'm afraid so," he replied, slipping an arm around her shoulders and guiding her back towards the house.

"But I'll make it up to you."

"How?" she queried, halting her steps and regarding him with a suspicious eye.

"Well," he began slowly, "we could pass by the hospital this afternoon. I'm almost certain Mrs Charles will be having her baby today and I did promise when you were thirteen…."

The remainder of his words were drowned out by an excited cry from his side and as the slender arms flung themselves around his neck, he instantly grabbed on tight to prevent himself from falling. Chuckling at her obvious enthusiasm, he carefully disentangled her and placed her back at his side.

"Well, shall we?" he teased, extending his arm to her.

"Yes we shall Dr Quinn," she conceded with a broad smile, the colour still fresh in her cheeks as she took the proffered arm and leaned in close against his shoulder, "thank you Father."

* * *

The carriage drew to a halt outside a fashionable home situated near the western bank of the Charles and exchanging somewhat sympathetic glances, both father and daughter alighted. The house belonged to a one Mary Norton, a formidable woman of thirty five who, retaining her fine figure and good looks, continued to enjoy the luxuries of a favourable position in society. She was wife to Dr Quinn's late brother and aside from her four older sisters, was Mike's only living relation, her mother's eldest sister having pre-deceased her. Since her husband's demise, Mary had attached herself even more securely to his remaining family and claiming a keen interest in her niece's well being, an idea heavily refuted by the said niece, demanded a meeting with them every Saturday morning. Dr Quinn was too much of a gentleman to refuse the request of the widow and since his daughter was in every other way isolated from her family, he had deemed it an advantage for her to maintain contact with her aunt and had duly acquiesced. Thus this Saturday morning found them, as always, standing on the porch step, basking in the warm autumn sunshine and waiting to be admitted.

"Show them into the drawing room immediately, Mayhew," came the imperative voice of Aunt Mary, as they crossed the threshold into the spacious hallway. Handing his hat to the long suffering Mayhew who received it with a vague contortion of his gnarled features, he placed a hand on his daughter's rigid back and pushed her gently forwards.

Her aunt, as usual, was seated in a large chair by the fireplace, her indispensable and seemingly endless needlework resting on her lap. Her two cousins, pretty young girls of thirteen and fifteen, scarcely looked up from their game of cards long enough to cast a habitual glance of disdain over her raiment before resuming their occupation. Returning the glance with a scowl, she stepped forward and politely greeted her aunt yet a muffled cackle from the corner instantly drew her attention again. Turning, she noticed her oldest cousin, a tall, weedy looking boy of seventeen speaking in low tones to a second boy, a stocky character with a mop of wavy dark hair whom she had never set eyes on before. Every so often they glanced in her direction, identical smirks curling their lips and leaving her in no doubt as to the topic of their conversation. Yet she was spared from voicing the bitter retort that lingered on the tip of her tongue by the sudden arrival of her father. Both boys instantly schooled their expressions and straightening up, stepped forward to greet the eminent physician whose reputation alone preceded his arrival in any circle. Inclining her head slightly to the group on her left, she had just enough time to hear her cousin introduce his friend as a "David Lewis" before the shrill tone of her aunt drew her back.

"Michaela Anne Quinn, are you listening to me?"

"Yes Aunt Mary," she replied in what she hoped was a sufficiently contrite tone.

"Such impertinence, "continued her aunt as though she hadn't heard, "and look at the state of you, hair everywhere! And whoever heard of a young lady wearing green! I would never dream of allowing either of my daughters to dress in such a common fashion."

In truth, Michaela's dress was a little unconventional yet it had been a necessary evil. The poor housekeeper, utterly despairing at her daily and frequently ineffectual attempts to get grass stains out of white muslin had finally decided that disguising the dirt was as good as removing it and had promptly sent out for a dozen dresses in various sombre shades. Her father always maintained that green brought out the colour of her eyes and she herself cared little for such matters, yet seeing her cousin's smug expressions confirming her aunt's criticisms, she felt her temper rise.

"Really Joseph," steamed on Aunt Mary, rising from her seat and stepping towards him, "it isn't proper for Michaela to be running about in this manner. You really ought to…"

As the onslaught continued, Joseph glanced subtly over his chastiser's shoulder and smiled at Michaela's deepening scowl. As she rolled her eyes in resignation and shook her head, a silvery sheen on her cheek caught the light. Eyes widening in recognition, he carefully brushed at his right ear and mouthed the word "cobweb" before fluidly directing Aunt Mary's attention to the new china set arranged on the side board. Michaela grinned gratefully and scrubbed at her cheek before strolling over to the book shelves. Her Uncle Theodore's library was almost as extensive as her father's and she ran her finger affectionately over the leather bound spines, seeking a volume in which to immerse herself. With her cousin and his companion occupying her father's attention and consequently her aunt's, for that lady never passed up an opportunity to exalt her son's apparent intellectual merits, she might well be able to read undisturbed until the blessed hour of deliverance arrived.


	2. Chapter 2

_Part 2:_

Though often a topic of heated discussion on the part of her aunt, Michaela had never much noticed the absence of women in her life. The age gap between her sisters was too great for her to really consider them as siblings and the eldest three had long been married before her rather unexpected entrance into the world. The last sister had just celebrated her coming out into society when Elizabeth had discovered she was pregnant and by the time Michaela, growing restless in such a confined space, had begun to kick her mother heartily by means of an occupation, an engagement had already been arranged with the son of a respectable lawyer. An adequate mourning period following Elizabeth's tragic demise was all that stood in the way of the marriage and thus by the time Michaela had begun to walk, the large house stood empty. Only the strong fingers of her father remained to hold her up as she struggled to gain her position in the world, his tender face alone met her curious yet often mischievous gaze. Through the early part of her childhood, polite and somewhat half hearted attempts had been made by each of her sisters to take a hand in her upbringing. Yet Joseph had been determined to raise his daughter himself, something he had neglected to do with each of the others, and by the time Michaela had discovered the glorious realm beyond the nursery, the sisters had hastily withdrawn of their own accord claiming that their youngest sister was nothing less than a wild, unruly thing that stoically resisted their best efforts to reform it. Thus abandoned, father and daughter cheerfully whiled away the turbulent years of youth, growing in the interim so close that on occasion, an outsider might have mistaken their conversation for that of equals rather than that of persons severed by nearly three decades worth of difference in age.

Seven years had passed since the afore described morning at Aunt Mary's yet little had changed; Dr Quinn and Miss Michaela had continued to call upon the formidable woman every week though she, in the absence of her own daughters who had married well and moved away, had grown ever more crotchety and diverted all her attentions to her blossoming niece. Every visit was predictably laced with the undertones of matrimony and the benefits of forming an advantageous alliance. These hints were met with such disinterest from both father and daughter alike that Aunt Mary, feeling herself to be as blithely ignored as her suggestions, finally issued a statement that wholly shattered the peaceful serenity of Michaela's world. In a week's time, a party was to be held in her honour and regardless of her resistance in the matter, she would be formally introduced into society.

* * *

"Come in" she called in response to the light knock on her door without looking up from the heavy volume she was eagerly perusing. A candle was lit, the pale watery light illuminating the piles of paper and books strewn across the small mahogany desk. Though nearing seven, the curtains still hung closed over the latticed window; the winter nights drew blankets of darkness so dense over the town that it took much effort for daylight to make its presence known and the large panes afforded little extra light until much later in the day.

"Mike," he chuckled softly, "already hard at work?"

"Mmm," she responded pensively, tracing a diagram with her finger before turning the page. Joseph smiled, his eyes wandering across the darkened chamber.

"Michaela!" he reproached suddenly, his stern voice causing her to jump in her seat and turn to meet his glare, "have you slept at all?"

"Yes," she replied defensively yet following his gaze to her still perfectly made bed added sheepishly, "a little."

"So I see," he interposed, peering at her right cheek where spots of ink attested to her fitful slumber on her still damp notes, "Really Mike..."

"I'm fine," she assured him, closing the heavy volume and rising from her seat, "I just wanted to catch up on some reading."

"Well, Mr Jacob's hernia needs to be repaired today before the risk of strangulation complicates the procedure," he began, "but perhaps we should defer till this afternoon, when you've had some rest and time to prepare."

Michaela hastily grabbed a shawl and drawing her hair into a loose plait proclaimed confidently, "I'm ready."

"You said yourself Father, the longer we wait the greater the risk," she added, raising her eye brow challengingly at him, "surely the good of the patient is more important than a few hours of lost sleep."

"Spoken like a true physician," replied Joseph, beaming proudly at his daughter as he took her arm, "let's not keep Mr Jacobs waiting then."

* * *

Though the shutters over the narrow window and the crumbling front door had been flung open, little extra light filtered into the gloomy chamber. The single room that lay host to a family of five was so small that daylight itself seemed to pass it by and once the make shift operating table had been wheeled into position at its centre, the remaining possessions of the meagre residence along with its inhabitants seemingly crammed shoulder to shoulder around it; a veritable audience for the lengthy procedure. Dust lay heavy upon the floor and with their every movement, small puffs rose to meander around his boots and settle against the folds of her skirt. Yet to all this they were oblivious; the conditions might be far from what they were used to but the sheer gratitude the family members had expressed at their arrival, engendered far more delight in the young student's heart than the detached and often abrasive attitude she generally encountered amongst Boston's finest.

"Turn your wrist more to the right before drawing the needle forwards" he advised, applying pressure to the organ as she proceeded to close the deep tissues, "it makes manoeuvring the instruments easier as well as ensuring the sutures are secure."

Watching her for a moment, he smiled; her mind seemed to instinctively absorb his directions and without conscious thought, apply them instantly to the task at hand. A voracious reader since childhood, her thirst for information had rapidly expanded her knowledge of general medicine and by her second year at medical school she had sought to rival even some of the most reputable professors at the establishment. Coupled with her utter lack of objection or condescension at working with somewhat lower members of society, this had allowed her to perfect her diagnostic and surgical skills until he was left in no doubt that her final examinations in a week's time would serve as nothing more than an open door to her professional career.

"Excellent work Dr Quinn," he commented with a broad grin as he withdrew and wiped his hands on a small cloth.

"I'm not a doctor yet, Father," she corrected him softly though matching his expression of mirth with a weary smile of her own.

"Well you very soon will be," replied Joseph unable to keep the pride out of his voice as he pulled the faded sheet back over the still slumbering form of their patient, "you can do anything you put your mind to Mike, I've always said so."

"You mean even survive the dreaded dinner tonight?" interposed Michaela with a groan.

Laughing at the deep grimace that marred her previously exultant features, he reached over and took her hand.

"Even that."

* * *

Michaela pulled surreptitiously at the lacings of the heavily starched dress and scowled. Taking her aunt's advice and holding her breath as she was laced into the treacherous contraption had clearly been a serious misjudgement on her part; the bony claws dug brutally into the flesh along her side and enclosed her in what felt like an additional and much less compliant rib cage. Her struggle grew ever more violent, the colour filling her thin cheeks as she fought to release even a fraction of the pressure that was now ascending her chest and pulling at her shoulders like a dead weight; yet the fabric stoically resisted her efforts and finally she abandoned the fight, leaning against the small table in resignation.

"You look exquisite Mike," came a soft voice at her elbow, followed by a slight chuckle. Mortified that her highly objectionable behaviour had not, as she had thought, gone unnoticed, she hastily turned around. Instantly catching the amused glance of her father, she exhaled in relief before registering the pinch of the bodice as it begun to contract around her and instantly checking her breaths.

"I don't feel exquisite," she replied with a bitter smile, "goodness knows how I'm supposed to talk and breathe at the same time without puncturing a lung."

"I haven't the faintest idea," interposed her father helpfully, beaming at the bewilderment that crept into her eyes as she glanced around the crowded room. In those rare moments when she thought no one was looking, he once again caught a glimpse of the young girl who had hung onto his jacket as he made his rounds, her mismatched eyes widening as they weaved their way through the intricate labyrinth of the hospital corridors. Though she had long ceased to be a child in need of his protection, still he mused over the vulnerability she held so close to her heart, so rarely displayed that one began to doubt if it was there at all; still he wondered what would happen to that little girl.

"Dr Quinn," hailed a familiar voice from across the room, "it's a pleasure to see you again. You remember my friend, David Lewis."

Her momentary disinterest at her cousin's witless tone rapidly dissipated upon hearing that name. She well remembered the coarse featured boy who had joined in her cousin's jibes within the dungeon of her aunt's drawing room and peering over her father's shoulder, she eagerly sought the narrow, dark eyes that had pursued her so doggedly across the rug as she made her way to the open door and thence to the terrace. Yet little of the youngster could be detected in the imposing and handsome figure standing before her. The thick, dark hair that would have been the pride and joy of any girl at the age of sixteen had lost its tight, boyish curl and hung in loose waves, framing his brow and strong jaw as a delicate curtain. Where the scratchings of a beard had once decorated the point of his chin, a dark shadow now resided, a weary testimony to the daily encounter with a razor. His eyes still flashed with the same lustre that Michaela had detected all those years ago yet as she continued to gaze at him, something deeper stirred within their depths; a haughty elegance that was seemingly mirrored in the fashionable cut of his suit, the perfectly knotted cravat and the glimmer of his pocket watch as it nestled against the satin of his waistcoat.

"Dr Quinn," he interposed fluidly with a bow, "a pleasure."

"David," she heard her father reply, "the last I heard you had graduated from Harvard with honours and were working with the most prestigious physician in Boston."

"Hardly the most prestigious Sir," corrected David, a smile curling his narrow lips, "but my father is an interesting character to work with."

To her great surprise, she felt her own lips curling along with his and when her father's arms slipped around her shoulders, directing her to make his acquaintance, a heavy blush rose and settled upon her cheeks. The delight that swiftly replaced the surprise etched upon the young gentleman's features as he encountered her much altered form did little to assuage her inexplicable discomfiture and as he took her hand, silently requesting her to dance, her heart seemingly assumed a heady rhythm of its own. A low comment in her ear as they wove in and out of the faceless couples instantly dissipated the intense hatred she had mustered earlier against the curling iron that had cheerfully burned more than it had styled and as a finger drifted up to gently trace a lone curl against her shoulder, she felt herself shiver despite the warmth of the evening. As the ribbons of music continued to tangle themselves around the dancing couple, she felt herself leaning closer towards him, her head inclining gently towards his until their lips were but a mere breath apart.


	3. Chapter 3

_Part 3:_

Children understand little of Death. From their huddled positions, they merely watch with wide eyes as it meanders its way through the hearts of family and friends, lovers and enemies alike, wondering at the behaviour of the figures around them, wholly oblivious to the treacherously woven trap of misery and fear for those left behind. When Death came to call at the Quinn residence, she had borne it stoically enough. Her own hand clasped tightly within her father's, they had stood together, side by side, identical tear trails marring their cheeks as the lid of the polished, oaken casket was finally closed upon the withered and frail visage of Aunt Mary. Yet when the dreaded spectre, dissatisfied at claiming merely a fragment of her heart, had returned within just a few months, she found herself utterly lost. For so long she had been as a thread upon a loom, held taut between the two wooden pegs that strengthen the structure and protect the fragile fabric as it carefully grows before one's eyes. As the lids slipped shut over the slate grey eyes, shielding them forever from her sight, the pillar upon which she had once leant in delight and desperation began to crumble and her heart along with it.

Thus it was a mere shadow of the engaging, young woman that had returned to the grand house as the sun began it's descent over the city, having been forcibly detached from his side by a faceless personage mere moments ago and gently directed to the light and warmth of her chamber. Yet comforting words faded within the void that had seemingly fallen between her and the unfamiliar forms that flittered around the large chambers in an attempt to dispel the sense of emptiness. They toiled in vain; the very walls wailed and protested the loss, their cries reverberating in her heart, and as the door closed behind her, she collapsed heavily against the bed, damp mud falling from her garments to tarnish the crisp, linen sheets.

* * *

"Michaela," she called desperately up into the tangled branches, "are you here?"

Though she too suffered the earnest pangs of losing yet another parent, she doubted if anyone felt the loss more keenly than the young lady now concealed amongst the leaves and blossoms. She understood at least in part what her other siblings did not choose to; the superlative bond of love and trust that had bound her father and youngest sister together had been a natural consequence of the hardship that Fate had slung so readily in their path and the severance of this tender rope had naturally twisted the remaining fragment until it appeared to the young lady as a noose around her neck. Ever since the funeral, she had kept to her room, silently refusing admittance to all, the light trip of her footsteps echoing late into the night as she continually paced up and down the small chamber. When she had finally emerged for dinner the previous evening, she was barely recognisable. The steady trickle of tears had wrought their bitterness upon her skin and eyes alike, each blistered and raw from her failed attempts to stem her grief. Her hair hung as a dull, straggled mass down her back and though always slender, her frame appeared at that moment so delicate that one feared a mere breath might shatter it irrevocably. Seated between her two elder sisters, she had attempted to restore a portion of normality to her seared heart yet with every passing moment, the irrepressible wildness had risen anew in her eyes and after ten minutes of avid struggle, she had finally surrendered herself to its turbulent governance and fled from the table. Though a sympathetic ear had pressed itself against her chamber door later that evening, no sound betrayed the presence of the lone figure enclosed within the familiar walls and it was not until the inky clouds began to yawn widely to reveal the pale grey sky beneath them that the door opened and a stocking clad figure emerged. Slinking silently down the staircase it deftly opened the kitchen door and vanished into the shadow ridden recesses of the garden.

"Michaela," she repeatedly gently, "please come down."

Several minutes elapsed in silence and bowing her head in resignation, she made to turn away. Yet a light rustling of stirred branches caught her attention and turning back, she saw the slender limbs emerging from the leafy canopy as an insect from a cocoon. Bright rays struck the curtain of auburn hair as it descended from the shadow of the great trunk, smattering the unruly locks with streaks of crimson. Yet a pale slip of ivory gleamed amongst the tresses and eyes widening in surprise, she recognised the curves of the simple hairstyle Michaela often favoured when she was working. As the slight figure stumbled down beside her and turned around, she was startled by the calm that exuded from its features. The traces of tears had been cooled by the early morning breeze and for the first time in days, a hint of colour had crept warily into the thin cheeks. Decision hung in every lineament and for a moment she was struck dumb by the inexplicable change that had seemingly been wrought overnight; the grieving daughter was gone and in her place stood a confident and commanding young lady.

"I'm leaving," came the unexpected response to the questions that nestled in her eyes, "there's nothing left for me here."

She should have protested immediately, framed a plausible reason for her reaction, persuaded her to stay. Yet she had instinctively recognised the truth of the words that had echoed so resolutely across the silent lawn. Michaela had lost more than just a parent; she had lost a part of herself.

"Where will you go?" she whispered sadly, the tears rising in her eyes though she could barely comprehend their source. In that moment, the sense that she had been a sister in name alone to the stranger before her was wholly overwhelming.

"I don't know yet," replied Michaela honestly, her eyes wandering across the familiar shrubs and flowers, lingering over the secret nooks where she had hidden as a child, exuberant laughter rising in her memory, "but I will."

* * *

An impatient shout from beyond the open door drew her attention and with a sigh she turned. Picking up the small carpet bag at her feet, she inhaled deeply and walked across the room towards the hall. Her figure in the gilded mirror arrested her movement and for a moment she paused and regarded herself critically. Though the travelling gown had rendered her form somewhat unfamiliar, the young girl who had often stood before the shimmering glass wriggling restlessly as her hair was brushed smooth by a gentle hand on a Saturday morning was now entirely indiscernible. In truth, that character had long fallen silent, dwindling to a mere ember within a stronger flame and it was the force of this new, indomitable personage that dragged her eyes away from the frame and directed them once more to the oaken door. Another shout, this time more urgent, hastened her steps and she instantly gained the threshold. Yet even as her hand closed on the door handle to pull it shut, she turned back. Peering sadly into the solitary study, she breathed sadly, "Good bye Father."

Perhaps someday she would return to the house, a smiling, lustrous character as she had once been. Yet as a light rain began to fall upon the city, slicking the paving stones with a sheen as of tears, it was a lonely, saddened soul that crossed the boundary into the unknown, the door to the past clicking miserably shut behind her.


End file.
